What’s Your Kryptonite?

My grandmother was born on an east Texas watermelon farm in 1922. At age 17, after she graduated from Beaumont High School, she left for Hollywood and danced in films alongside Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, hobnobbed with Humphrey Bogart. After she met my grandfather, she left Hollywood and gave birth to four beautiful children, the oldest of whom is my mother. I am the oldest of nine grandchildren. I wish I had inherited her legs.

This past December, she died after a fifteen-year journey with Alzheimer’s, and throughout her decline, she was as light-filled and beautiful as Alzheimer’s is bleak and ugly. I remember, in the earlier stages of the disease, how she would bend down to study a flower with awe and wonder, or stop walking and raise her face to the sky to watch a bird soaring overhead. With childlike wonder, she noticed what we adults consider mundane.

My mother, so involved and committed to my grandmother’s comfort and well-being, intimately cared for my grandmother as the disease rendered her wholly dependent and vulnerable. There was such rawness in my grandmother’s vulnerability; sometimes witnessing the progression of the disease sucked the air from my lungs.

I think about vulnerability quite a lot in both my human life and my writer life. When we bare ourselves, we can feel very chilly. Vulnerability can be painful too: rug burns and splinters may occur with so much bareness. Have you ever poked a snail’s antennae-eyeball and watched it retract? Vulnerability can feel like we are the snails and some human schmo has bent down to intentionally poke our eyeball.

When we are vulnerable, we give someone else a piece of our self, not knowing how it will be received or whether there will be reciprocity. We simply open up our chests to another, hoping that person will appreciate or empathize with our desire to reveal the beauty of a beating heart, praying he will not run screaming.

CAUTION! SOME PEOPLE WILL RUN SCREAMING! That person over there, that sealed-tight, glass-skinned lady with the pretend smile? She likes Valentiney, heart-shaped things, but doesn’t like actual hearts, especially when they aren’t covered up with lots of layers of stuff.

And over there . . . that fellow in the brick box he has built for himself, with just a few gaps for air holes and sunlight, he’s terrified of all organs, especially warm, bare skin, our body’s largest organ of all. He stays in the brick box where it’s safe, where there’s no need to see others’ vulnerability, where there’s no reason to be vulnerable himself.

The decision to live with vulnerability allows others to poke us in sensitive places, but vulnerability can also leave us feeling wholly alive, invigorated and truthful. Vulnerability also connects us more intimately to others. If you’ve tried out vulnerability, you know I’m telling the truth.

Vulnerability: Good for Humans

In his picture-book-for-adults, V is for Vulnerable,Seth Godin, explains, when we are willing to be vulnerable with someone else, we create “imbalance” in the relationship . . . we are admitting that we struggle in some way, knowing full well that the other person might laugh at us, fear us, dislike us. But it’s that imbalance, Godin says, that leads to connection. Yes!

There will be eyeball-pokers, and there will be many kindhearted others, willing to watch and nod as we bare bits of skin and soul. Those people will move closer to us, understanding that they too have hearts that beat, throbbing and pumping life all over the place. They too are comforted by the warm skin of another.

Not sharing ourselves or our stories shrinks the size of our worlds; sharing does the opposite. As our worlds get bigger through the sharing of stories, we become more compassionate humans. Best of all, when we have greater compassion for others, we desire to seek and create a more justice-filled world. At least that’s what my pastor preached two Sundays ago, and she’s a brilliant, light-filled arse-kicker.

Before you say, But I don’t really feel comfortable with vulnerability, let me share some bad news: if you are reading this post, you are alive; if you are alive, you are living; if you are living, you are vulnerable to one million different things. Sorry, alive people! You arealreadypracticing the art of vulnerability. So let’s move along and look at the importance of vulnerability in a writer’s life.

Vulnerability: Good for Writers, Characters and Stories

A feeling of nakedness is an essential part of writing and sharing something never before seen, something that illuminates the beauty and the sorrow of being human.

Story links humans.

Along those lines, if our characters are not vulnerable in some way, there is no story. Without the potential for contact with Kryptonite, without the dilemma of juggling two identities, Superman’s story has neither conflict nor tension. Without the looming possibility of Holden Caulfield’s suicide, we don’t much care about his woe-is-I diary. Without Romeo’s often-blind passion, we won’t worry that we’re about to witness a complete and inevitable romantic train wreck. Our characters must be compelled by a need or desire so great that they are desperate to get what they desire. That desperation, that willingness to risk everything, is vulnerability. And it delights readers. Journeying alongside a vulnerable character allows us to experience uncertainty and risk without having to abide it in real life.

How Do We Create Vulnerable Characters?

Since I’m really good at math, let me share an equation that makes storytelling appear simple: Character’s Burning Desire + Very Big Obstacle + Willingness to Risk It All in Spite of VBO = a Vulnerable Character.

Let’s do some algebra and plunk Romeo into this equation.

Desire: He wants Juliet. He wants her so bad. He really wants her.

VBO: Romeo’s family hates Juliet’s family and vice versa. Neither family will ever approve of this union.

Willingness to Risk It All: Romeo is young, mercurial and passionately in lust with Juliet. He cannot be distracted from his desire.

Add up these three elements, and the reader or audience recognizes and worries about Romeo’s vulnerability. The worry keeps us turning pages or watching scenes.

Consider the protagonist in your work-in-progress. What does she desire or need so badly that she is willing to risk everything to attain it? What traits does she possess that compel her to pursue this desire? What forces and which opposing characters get in her way, increasing the necessity of her vulnerability?

I am only scratching the surface here, so I urge you to read David Corbett’s craft book, The Art of Character, in which he identifies the connection between shame and vulnerability, the sources of vulnerable feelings (internal, external, situational, existential, moral) and the reader’s fondness for vulnerable characters. This book should be a part of your writing resources. And there are hardly any math equations.

Your turn to share with the WU community. What’s your Kryptonite? As a writer, of what are you most afraid? Is this fear also the most powerful fear in your regular life? What unexpected gifts have come out of your vulnerability? How about this scary request: share one vulnerable thing you have done so far in 2016. Thank you for your vulnerable sharing!

In Achilles Heel Solidarity,

Sarah

Wish you could buy this author a cup of joe?

Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her husband, son and daughter. A crummy house-cleaner and terrible at responding to emails in a timely fashion, Sarah chooses instead to focus on her fondness for chocolate and Abe Lincoln. She is working on her third novel while her fab agent pitches the first two to publishers.

Great post, Sarah. I think it’s Michael Hauge who recommends that we identify the one thing that a character would absolutely NEVER be willing to do – i.e., their biggest fear – and then put them in a situation where they have to do it. Uncomfortable? Oh hell yes.

Oh, and I’d tell you what my Kryptonite is, but then you’d know too much, and I’d have to kill you. You know how it is with us superheroes.

Great post! You know what my kryptonite is? The fear of someone accusing me of being ungrateful. I am so worried that a friend or family member will mistake a character’s dissatisfaction for my own and call me out. I can’t get out of my own head.

This is fascinating, Courtney! Thank you for sharing. It’s so interesting to me how people read biographical details into our fiction. I once did a reading and read a little chunk of my first novel (still unpublished) in which the mother character is clearly not being kind to her daughter. A few friends commented, “But I’ve met your mom! She seems so sweet!”

It’s so hard for people to remember that the definition of fiction is “made up stuff.” I am learning, though it’s not easy, that my job is to write the best stories I can. Once they are out in the world, I lose control of them. They will be misunderstood, and I will be misunderstood. It’s scary of course, and it’s also OK.

That said, I plan not to read reviews because I will absolutely want to defend myself and my characters if I do!

I really do appreciate you sharing, Courtney. In fact, I am grateful! :)

I just recently unveiled my website, and it took a lot of courage to put that ‘work’ out there for all to see. The novel will be out before long. Others may not see it when they read the book, but it took a lot of letting go from this often uptight human being to open up the way I did in the novel. I hope not to get a case of hives on the day it’s available. At any rate, I won’t sleep that night.

Thank you, Carmel! I loved your honest comment. Was it easier to be a writer before all of this social media pressure? Before websites and Twitter? I don’t know . . . certainly social media and the internet help connect us with readers, but since many of us sway to the introverted end of the spectrum, the public displays can be hive-making. You’d be weird if you didn’t feel loads of trepidation. In fact, I think your feelings mean that your work is authentic and raw. Those are good qualities in a story. If you didn’t feel partially naked, I’d say you hadn’t really bared much at all.

I look forward to reading your beautiful work. I know it is beautiful. :)

Sarah, thank you for a wonderful post. Your grandmother is beautiful (like you). It is humbling to have to be taken care of and I’m so glad to know you had the privilege. Requiem aeternam.

My greatest fear being a writer is being mediocre, like Herr Kappus. Does anybody remember him? No, but he was the recipient of the letters penned by Rainer Maria Rilke (Letters to a Young Poet). So I cannot despise my efforts, the small beginnings, forgettable achievements. I am writing, striving to get better, and that’s what counts. I’m amongst friends here, but this is still a public place and I do feel a mite naked.

Yes, Vijaya. I understand completely. I am not one for even a mite of public nudity.

This past Sunday, the pastor at church preached on the mustard seed and yeast parables. The main message: small, hidden things matter. Big, ostentatious things are valued in our world, but it’s the small things that can make even more impact.

I love your words about your small-feeling progress and achievements. Small things matter! Your comments here matter. Thank you for being here!

Well, I’ve been accused of being imbalanced before, but never like this. Finally, it’s working for me!

Hmmm, my vulnerability? I guess you have to start with the fact that I’m a lucky guy. A lot of people know it. It doesn’t matter how it came about. Nobody cares. A lot of posts here and elsewhere talk about the struggle to find the time, the right place, the right kind of support, to do what one loves. Well, I’ve got it all – the ideal situation: a supportive, kickass wife, the perfect place to write, and the time to do it. So my biggest fear is that the work will never prove me worthy of it. I’ll be seen to have squandered it.

So I suppose it’s no surprise that my current protagonist has a lot handed to him (power, support, people who believe in him, even a supportive, kickass warrior-woman guardian). The expectations are high. He doesn’t feel worthy, of any of it. I find it easy to make the shit rain down on him. The question is, can I clean him up and bring him through in a satisfying way? Or will it just seem like he squandered everything that was “handed” to him (in spite of the shitstorm)?

I love that picture of your grandmother, Sarah. Sorry for your loss. Hold her in your heart. It’s clear to me – gams or no – that she’s a big part of who you are. Thanks for calling me imbalanced and forcing me to expose my inner organs!

Thank you for this perfect example of vulnerability, Vaughn. Don’t you find that when you are vulnerable, the gifts by far outweigh the fear and pain? One of the reasons you’re such a superstar on WU is your authenticity and vulnerability. I never trust someone who doesn’t gravitate toward someone who’s willing to be vulnerable; they are simply not my people.

There really is something scary about spending thousands and thousands of hours working on fiction . . . even if you weren’t such a lucky guy, I wonder if you’d still worry about “making it.” In my mind, you already have. You have written books, Vaughn. That’s amazing.

I liken it to running a marathon (which I have never done). My friends who have, however, are so impressive to me. They complete a grueling race. They don’t WIN the race, but they do complete it. And isn’t writing a novel similar? Sure we want to “win the race” but it’s also amazing to make it to the finish line. :)

Let your protag be worried about never making good on all he was given. Live through him if you must. . . but as for yourself, care not what others think. Remove at least that piece. You and the writing will shine, so that we all need sunglasses at your readings.

My protagonist’s vulnerability is harder to pin down. He’s resisting what he most wants and needs, a love which he threw away and which now cannot be reclaimed. The reason it cannot be reclaimed is, in your equation, the VBO and it’s a very big obstacle indeed.

Thus, gaining what he wants and needs is impossible. Which I now see is exactly why he must undertake to obtain his CBD. Which in turn means that he will fail–in turn to discover that his CBD is actually something very different than he thought. It’s to repair his moral state, to be whole and at peace with himself.

His moral state. Ah. So there we go. Just like me.

I agree with you about David Corbett’s book. Wonderful, and your distillation into CBD + VBO + WRIASO-VBO = VC is awesome. Best formula since E = MC2. Thanks, Sarah.

Sarah, you have a gift for making me laugh. Today, you made me cry. In a good way, though. My Kriptonite has been launching a newsletter, which I finally did just after the New Year. After I did it, I felt exposed, but also set free somehow. A big weight lifted. The sky didn’t fall. So, onward. Vulnerability. Wow! I think we have to open ourselves to it every time we write. no matter who or what we’re writing about. No small task. And what a gift to offer the world. Writers are my heros.

Oh bravo, brave woman! That is so great. That’s the very weird thing about being vulnerable is the resulting freedom. The sky hardly ever falls, and even if it did, I can’t imagine it would hurt very much. How heavy is air, really?

I am vulnerable, in so many ways, and thus my characters are too. Vulnerability connects them to me and I hope to my readers. Life without some hesitation or worry, without some concern would not be life. I watched my mother fight through dementia until her death. She accepted her vulnerability–she revealed it to us in ways that made us weep. But life equals the revelation of some weakness and none of us are excused from this. It’s a well to tap into. Readers will read. Thanks, Sarah.

Beautiful, Beth. Thank you. I am so sorry that your mother had to struggle in that way, but I can tell you also saw the beauty in that journey.

I love your point about no one being exempt from having a weakness . . . it’s so strange to me (this is me being Pollyanna) that people try to hide it from others. It’s so much more lonely to have to hide some facet of who we are.

Sarah I choked on my coffee laughing after reading that. Best description EVER.

And that was after you had me in tears describing your grandmother’s last years.

Beautiful post, and a question: Have you ever thought about writing your grandmother’s story? If the glimpse into her life granted to us by you is any indication, you will have a captivated army of readers.

Thank you, Bernadette, and I so appreciate your question. I have thought about it . . . but I also don’t think I could write it because there’s so much I don’t know. People in her generation, as you know, weren’t excited to bare much of anything. As a result, I didn’t get to learn much about the difficult parts of her life.

The vulnerability she had to share in the later part of her life was such contrast to how she was when she was younger. She was never inauthentic; she was just eternally optimistic. For that reason, everyone always wanted to be around her . . . when someone’s that light-filled, it’s easy to assume there’s nothing painful or broken underneath. I never got to know anything about what was underneath. So I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much of a story. :)

Terrific post. I especially liked, “Before you say, But I don’t really feel comfortable with vulnerability, let me share some bad news: if you are reading this post, you are alive; if you are alive, you are living; if you are living, you are vulnerable to one million different things. Sorry, alive people! You are already practicing the art of vulnerability.”

I had not thought about the mere fact of living making us vulnerable, but I saw what you meant as I finished the article.

I know! Isn’t that amazing. I think it’s hard for us to spend too much time thinking about how being alive requires being vulnerable, but it’s true. Falling in love, interviewing for a job, having children, writing a novel, driving a car . . . perhaps if we realized just how vulnerable we were, we’d never leave the house. We are practically professionals when it comes to being vulnerable.

Here’s to light-filled arse-kicking pastors and writers and plain old humans. Thanks for this insight Sarah. This post has given me a glimpse of what isn’t quite right about my protagonist and how I can fix it. Thank you.

I’m so glad, Rita. I am always so humbled by how easy it is for me to forget such basic things when I am writing. I keep hoping it’ll become more ingrained in my head and in my fingertips, but so far, it’s not.

This is the best post I’ve read all week. Thank you for sharing, Sarah.

I love this: Character’s Burning Desire + Very Big Obstacle + Willingness to Risk It All in Spite of VBO = a Vulnerable Character.

With beginning fiction writers we use something similar, but it’s less fun/eloquent than yours: have him or her on a sheet of paper write, “This is a story about [blank], a character who wants [blank] and will stop at nothing — including [blank] — to get it.” And then fill in the blanks.

As for my fears as a writer, success and failure are tied for. No. 1. It’s a pretty neat trick. It also keeps the odds heavily on the side of failure.

Thank you for that equation. That’s fabulous and perfect for lovers of Mad Libs. Right on!

I am so glad you brought up the fear of success. One of my friends has that issue, and it paralyzes her. I have many other fears, but that one’s always been mysterious to me. Do you think the fear of succeeding is really the fear of sustaining that success? If so, then yes. That is scary to me. Is it the fear that success opens us up to reviewers and critics? Yes, that’s scary to me. Maybe I am scared of success after all!

Thanks for asking. I imagine part of the fear is that publishing a book (or what have you) would open me up to criticism. It would also — if it were a popular book — lead to attention, and that’s something I try to avoid. The idea of giving readings, interviews, sitting on panels, etc., is a huge turn-off for me. I don’t want people talking about me or my work, and I don’t really want to talk to other people about me or my work.

I suppose I could publish anonymously. People would still talk about the work, but at least I would be at a remove.

So yeah, I guess it’s partly criticism, and the rest probably shows a lack of self-confidence. All good fodder for therapy.

I also just think it’s fun and ridiculous to say that I’m afraid of both success and failure.

Gorgeous, uplifting post! I loved the word you chose to put with your grandmother’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis: “journey”. It said so much more than what we usually and logically attach to the dreaded diagnosis: battle, tragic deterioration… What a gift that you and your mother were given moments of grace amid the difficulties of her last years. I’m so sorry for your loss.

As for vulnerability, there is nothing more painful for me than being thought of as a fraud, especially when I’ve put myself out there as the authority on a subject. It is all me in my How To wine business books. I can’t hide behind characters or obfuscate with fiction. I’m laying a foundation, giving them a map to follow and telling them they will reach their destination if they listen to me. What if they fail? If they end up running around in a maze? Money, time, resources, sweat and passion are expended in this new career. If they fail, I’ve failed.

I’ve been fortunate that my first book has been well received, but a second has just been published and I’m going through that same gut-churning anxiety and I’m sure I will for the 3rd, 4th and forever, if I should be so fortunate to have an ongoing career.

Finally, Sarah, I cannot believe you are not already published. I’m so looking forward to reading your books when you are! I love your writing style.

This was such a great example of vulnerability. And it also points to your passion for the topic and the people who are reading it. I loved your line, “If they fail, I have failed.”

I don’t think that is at all true BUT I love it because you truly care about your readers. I know they must sense this caring too. Do you think your fear/vulnerability is the “impostor complex” or is it something different? I think many of us on WU feel like we are impostors and our cover will be blown at any moment.

It’s GOOD (while uncomfy) that you feel anxiety and anticipation when your books are coming out. I’d worry if you didn’t . . . it’s simple a sign of your passion and commitment.

Sarah, I think it could be the “impostor complex”. Although I have been a wine importer for many years, and should know what I’m doing, do I really? Who am I to tell others the “right” way to go about it? After all, I wasn’t wildly successful in my own career. I supported myself for nearly 20 years, but when the economy got particularly bad I wasn’t doing well and started writing, consulting and teaching. Now I do those things full-time and find I am more suited to them.

As an aside, I wrote two unpublished novels before my first How To book and I believe it made me a better non-fiction writer. Readers tell me they like the conversational style and that I make the facts interesting. It is an example of how none of our writing goes to waste. It’s all grist for the mill.

“Not sharing ourselves or our stories shrinks the size of our worlds; sharing does the opposite. As our worlds get bigger through the sharing of stories, we become more compassionate humans. Best of all, when we have greater compassion for others, we desire to seek and create a more justice-filled world. At least that’s what my pastor preached two Sundays ago, and she’s a brilliant, light-filled arse-kicker.”

Happy to see you here on WU. I so appreciate your sweet comment. When we write, we toss something out into the world and wonder if it sticks (in a good way) to anyone. Thank you for showing where and how it stuck on you.

Sarah, my dad died after 10 years of Alzheimer’s and it was a harsh (but fascinating) thing to witness this warm, outgoing man’s mind lose its marrow. We were grateful that he was still a nice person at the end, still warmly greeting us, when he wasn’t always sure who we were.

He revealed some of my own great fear, that of loss of control. Lately, I’ve been trying to write more openly about my depression, which is a vulnerable place for me as well. And I echo many other writers’ sentiments here, that of writing meaningless dreck, or stuff that will see few readers’ eyes. I’m working on a collaborative novel right now that I think has little commercial appeal, but I love the story, so there’s that.

Thanks for a nice piece. Your grandmother was a babe, by the way. Hope she and Lauren Bacall didn’t tangle.

Yes, my grandmother was a total babe! She and Lauren only got in one cat fight and when my grandmother won, she planted a huge lipstick kiss on Lauren’s cheek. That was her signature sign of “I was here!”

I love your dad just from your brief description. And I am sorry you had to experience that journey with him . . . and doesn’t it force us to explore our own vulnerabilities!

I’m so glad you are willing to write about depression. I have a friend with a stammer, and he is big on saying that it doesn’t define him. I agree that is doesn’t define him. But it has made me think about my own challenges with bipolar: I think it does, at least a little, define me; I know it gives me a great sensitivity to the world, great empathy, the ability to see and experience what others cannot, courage . . . all of those things are part of who I am, and all of those things allow me to be a better writer.

Wow. Self-involved Tangent alert! All that to say, thank you for showing us how those with mental illness are actually quite healthy and successful.

I hate that we have to think about our stories’ commercial appeal. I know we do; still I don’t like it one bit. I bet all of your fiction is beautiful. I know your nonfiction sure is!

Note: my esteemed publicist, S. Callender, won’t be available for consults for the next month, as she’ll be sunning in the Bahamas, impelled by the tidy check presented to her for shilling my book. Sarah: wear sunscreen.

Ha! Yes, Anne. I’m so glad you wrote that last line: “Surprisingly the response was positive.”

I think that is so often the truth! When we share our authentic, messy selves (and when it’s not too much unnecessary information) readers respond. I think that’s why we (Americans in general) like reality TV; we get to see the raw and vulnerable parts, warts and all, of the contestants. Good for you for being brave with your post!

What a great post, Sarah! Living inside the skin of my main character and making her suffer through her loss and her challenges…well, that is something I’ve had to LEARN (the hard way) to do. You can’t dodge those things in a good book. Two weeks ago, I took a leap and sent my work, a middle grade novel, to an agent I’m so hoping to work with! Her agency is closed to queries, but I decided to take a chance, b/c she’d read my two previous novels…and told me she’d read anything I wrote in the future. I’ve lived with rejection, so I get the waiting game. You try hard not to stare. And then all of a sudden, you catch yourself checking your email AGAIN! Who knows what will happen, but there is a certain amount of nakedness in sending your work out and hoping for the best. God, I wish I were a house painter! Your work is published every day, and by the end of the project you can just step back with everyone else–and voila! The pain is over and the wind and sun can have their day! Too bad I love the writing so much!! ;)

Sarah, what a lovely post. Heartwarming, revealing and touching. And yes, a lovely photo of your grandmother. I hope you got some of her stories.

As for my kryptonite, I’ve become braver with each story.

As writers, the more we reveal that which we are afraid of, the closer we get to the truth and to our readers.

What I’m stressing about lately is the story I’ve written and am in the process of revising. I’ve written my grandmother’s story as true life fiction, because there are too many imagined conversations and characters in the mix. I want to increase its possible readership by weaving in a parallel story, different time period between my mother and myself.

What is scary is how much to reveal. My mother was a wonderful person but the period I want to write about is one where I had some difficulty with her and her choices. The commandment, Honour Thy Mother and Thy Father is tripping me up, but I need to persevere and understand that none of us is perfect and by giving my truth (not necessarily hers) my novel will be a more authentic and compelling read.

Wow, Diana. This is such a great example. I have two critique partners, and they both write memoir and personal essays. I am always amazed by their courage to toss out real and intimate details of their personal lives. I couldn’t do it . . . I’d be too worried about hurt feelings and sharing personal details that aren’t mine to share. And yet, when they are part of one’s story, they often have to be shared.

I applaud you for being brave and for understanding how it’s these rich details about hard things make the story resonate with readers. Readers are smart. Most will stop turning the pages of an inauthentic, surface-scratching story.

Your grandmother had me at ‘hello,’ and you had me when you said goodbye to her. It took me a while to be able to absorb your main message. You gotta cut that out. . . for the sake of us little people.

I, too, want to call out David Corbett’s book, The Art of Character. It’s a great piece of analysis and scholarship–no surprise to all of us here at WU. He leaves no stone unturned.

And your grandmother’s story? You say you can’t write it, because well, those folks didn’t reveal much. But I’m here just in time to push back into the scrum. That’s why novelists were invented, as you point out. Make stuff up. It was a fabulous time to be young and beautiful and her aging that way, it’s an old frontier becoming new again as we turn our eyes back to engage the elderly, after number of decades of not wanting to look. . . There’s currently a bestseller about a woman carrying a matriarch through Alzheimers. Thanks so much for this wake up message.

Shoot, Tom. You are right of course. And YOUR message helps me understand a bit more about my reluctance to write her story: I don’t want to know certain things about her.

Saying that out loud (or even thinking it inside) makes me feel like I’m a cruddy person, but I know it’s because I don’t want my memories of her to be altered in any way.

It also seems a bit unfair to her; she worked hard to keep stuff inside and hidden. Would is be OK for me to dig up her buried treasure? But mostly it’s my issue: I don’t want to know that she was anything other than who I’ve always believed she is. Selfish me! I thank you for helping me sort that out. I need to talk to my dog about that.

Cruddy person? You? Not! And never my intent. My apologies. When I write about people I know and love (or not) or when I’m inspired by them so much their light deserves a place in words, I make them more of who they are, so much so that the reader will grasp her own favorite one. n my comment I meant of course, fiction for your grandmother. Not the woman in the picture.

I know a little about this. I have spent the last two years writing a book inspired by the heroism of the departed love-of-my life (cancer, way too young.) Because of the evolution of the story, she’s so different now, all that remains is her name. Even that is tweaked from Claire to Clarissa. I’ll always associate the book with her. It’s for her. But it isn’t her.

But I digress. Your love for your grandmother is impossible not to fall in love with. Thanks.

P.S. And you and Tom Bentley, to name just one, are heroes in my book for sailing into the storm of depression. Hmm, I’ll have to write another book.